The Boulevard of Broken Dreams
by 211Boyfriend
Summary: Elaria Jameson's dad abuses her. Every Tuesday night she comes to see Bobby to get cleaned up. It's been a weekly thing since she was eight, and now she's seventeen. Almost ten years of pain - and yet only just now she's realizing that she can just walk away. Planning to stay with Bobby, she finds the Winchesters. Maybe they're pretty okay too. (No Romantic Pairings Planned)


The rain was pounding on my head only slightly faster than my bare feet on the wet, muddy ground. I hadn't even run this fast during training sessions. I was wheezing, my lungs were burning, and my legs felt like lead – but I didn't stop. I wouldn't stop until I got to Bobby's house, because then I would feel safe. I might even _be_ safe.

Gradually, his house came into view and it drew closer. I paused in his muddy driveway, panting heavily. I noticed that his truck wasn't here – instead there was a familiar sleek black car with its windows rolled down.

Still breathing heavily, I trudged over to the car and opened the unlocked door and saw that the keys were still in the ignition. I turned the key, making the car rev to life. I rolled up the windows and sighed, turning the car off and locking the doors, walking up to the porch and carefully walked into his house.

It was quiet. I kept my long fingers grasped tightly around the grip of the pistol that I had tucked into the front of my pants. Just in case.

Quickly moving, I stepped into the corner just before the arch that provided entry to the living room.

"Bobby?" I timidly called out.

At first there was no response. But I heard something creak. Someone was moving about.

"Who's there?" A familiar, gravelly voice yelled back – seemingly only feet away from me. I slowly pulled out my gun and pointed it forward, narrowing my eyes, ready to strike.

"I'm looking for Bobby," I replied, "What'd you do to him?"

Abruptly, a large figure jumped out in front of me, the glint of silver barely flashing before a similar gun was pointed right at my head. I lifted my gaze from the middle of his black-clad chest and up to his dark hazel eyes which had bags under them. I knew this guy. _Was it...? Oh my God!_

I kept my pistol aimed, but I tilted my head, whispering, "John?"

His eyes narrowed as he looked down upon me, "Who are you?"

"Believe it or not," I scoffed, "My name is Elaria Jameson."

His eyes widened in shock, "Ellie?"

I nodded, slowly putting my gun down and getting into a more relaxed position. John put his gun down as well, but still had a defensive stance. I couldn't blame him. He was looking me over, probably confused by all of the bruises on my arms and face, and worrying about the fact that my lip was busted open and dripping crimson blood.

"What happened?" He asked.

I gave a light smile, "What happens every Tuesday night. Daddy gets drunk and beats up his little girl."

He seemed disgusted. Bobby usually had that expression as well whenever I came over.

"Do you come here every Tuesday night, then?"

"Unless he stays awake; or I can't walk. Yes."

He seemed sympathetic.

"Bobby is out for a few days. Me and my boys are here guarding the fort," John informed me.

"The boys?" I questioned.

"My sons; Sam and Dean," he answered. "You never got to meet them – well, scratch that. You met Dean when Sammy was at Stanford. But I think you were a baby. How old are you now?"

"Seventeen, sir," I replied. "And I don't want to seem rude; but do you think I can change into something that isn't soaking wet. I've got my phone and my charger in my bag and they might be ruined by now."

"No problem," John answered, though still looking a bit cautious.

I sighed deeply, knowing the procedures that my own father used whenever a stranger showed up.

"I don't have my knife with me. Otherwise I would prove to you that I'm not a demon. If you're adamant about me proving it; I'll use one of Bobby's," I told him.

"If you wouldn't mind," he replied.

I slowly walked passed him and strode into the library to Bobby's desk. I knew he had a knife tucked away in one of his drawers. I rummaged through one before grabbing the hilt and pulling it out. I pulled up the blue sleeve of my denim jacket to reveal purple, finger-like bruises and red blotches covering my skin. That's just what happens when dad gets mad.

John was frowning but I kept my gaze adverted from his face as best I could. I found an area of my arm that was my normal skin color and dug the blade into it, causing blood to spill out. I winced and wiped the blood off of blade on my jeans and put it back in the drawer.

"I don't have to drink holy water too, do I?" I asked in sigh, looking miserably up at him.

He shook his head. "No. I take it you came to get cleaned up, hm?"

"Yes, sir."

"I only know a little bit about cleaning wounds. I don't think it's too late for Sammy to be up, though. If you go upstairs to the spare bedroom, that's where the boys are. Sammy's the tall one."

"Thanks, John," I said to him, before giving a half smile and proceeded to drag myself upstairs. I liked Bobby's house. It was a lot bigger than mine. It was a lot cozier too. I guess everything about it was better than my dinky house.

I walked to the spare bedroom, noticing that the door was open just a crack. I heard two voice arguing.

"If you say that Led Zeppelin is stupid ever again; I'll kick your ass out the window."

"I didn't say they were stupid! I said that there have been better bands!"

"Shut your pie hole, Sammy. Zeppelin is seriously one of the best bands ever!"

I smiled at their conversation. I remembered that Bobby said John loved classic rock music. I guess he shared that with at least one of his sons definitely. I waited a few moments before knocking on the door – rendering them both silent. Seconds later a tallish man with short dirty blonde hair with John's hazel eyes – only a little lighter – opened the door. He narrowed his eyes – another John trait? Definitely biological.

"Who are you?"

"Elaria." I answered him. "I came to see Bobby but I guess you guys are here instead right now. I already talked to John downstairs and he already tested to make sure I'm not a demon."

I held out my arm for proof, and turned upwards to show the still bleeding cut. I guess I cut myself a little deeper than necessary, but I could never quite control my strength how I wanted to.

The guy nodded his head and glanced back at the other man with long, dark brown hair. I guessed that one was Sammy.

"I'm Dean. That's my brother Sam," Dean introduced them. "What did you need?"

"John told me to come see Sam to fix up the war-zone going on, on my face," I replied, gesturing to my split lip especially.

Dean turned around and motioned for Sam to get up, to which he did, and he walked over.

"Sam's your younger brother?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.

"Yeah, why?" Dean wondered aloud.

"Did ya have an intense growth spurt?" I questioned, smiling a little.

Sam chuckled and nodded, "Yeah. 'Bout when I was fourteen."

Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head, retreating back into the room. "Have fun, Sammy."

"C'mon," Sam said, walking in front of me and taking me into Bobby's upstairs bathroom.

I followed behind obediently and dumped my bag onto the floor as soon as I walked in. I knelt down and pulled out my phone and charger, looking them both over before setting them on the floor. They didn't look wet at all – that's good!

I stood back up and peeled off my drenched jacket and jumped up to drape it over the shower curtain rail. I then rolled my green sleeves all the way up to my shoulders, exposing my multitude of scars, cuts, and bruises to Sam. I turned around and saw him pulling out an array of things from behind Bobby's bathroom mirror behind the sink.

I pulled my hair out of my face and went to my book bag to pull out a hair tie, and I tied my blonde hair back tightly in a high ponytail. Doing this also revealed the large bruise on the left side of my neck, and the three parallel scars on the right side of my cheek.

He turned to face me, and looked plaintively shocked. His mouth tugged down into a frown and he let a small breath of air push past his lips.

"Sit down," he said quietly; turning back to the tools he was going to work with.

Obeying, I put the seat and lid down on the toilet and took a seat, straightening up my face and sticking my chin out to let him do whatever he needed to do.

First he asked me if I wanted to wash my own face off, but I didn't care, so he did it for me. He was surprisingly gentle. He didn't scrub hard at all over my bruises, and he was careful and cautious dabbing at my lip and my cuts.

He then proceeded to use a bunch of ointments that I would never know the name of, repairing what he could. After the atrocity that was my face had been dealt with, he quickly sanitized the cut I had to inflict upon myself on my arm, and he looked over my arms for any more open wounds.

"How come you have all of these bruises?" He asked gently.

"My dad is pretty violent," I answered without missing a beat.

He continued to frown, sighing and standing up.

"That should do it," he said, changing the subject. "Hopefully the wounds will clean up nicely."

"Hopefully," I agreed.

"And if I were you, I'd dry off and change into warm, dry clothes," he advised.

"I don't have any warm, dry clothes," I replied, gesturing to my soaked back pack.

"Hmm…" He hummed, and glancing me over again. "It might be a little big, but you could probably fit into something of Dean's. Want me to go get something?"

"Uh… You don't have to…"

"I'll go get something," he said with a warm smile, and walked out of the room.

I walked in front of the mirror and looked myself over. It was a big improvement, I thought. The grime was off of my face. There wasn't any blood. I took my hair out of my pony tail and opened the mirror to pull out a hair brush that I left the last time I had to run over here. Closing the mirror, I sighed deeply and started brushing the knots out of my hair as gently as I could.

Maybe since Sam was so gentle, he could do this for me too, I mused, eliciting a smile and a small giggle. Then, someone knocked on the door.

"Come in," I said.

Dean opened the door and stepped in, a little bit awkwardly.

"Can you sleep in sweat shirts?" He asked.

"I prefer to, actually," I answered, turning to face him.

He then held out a brown sweater and simple black sleeping pants. I took them graciously.

"Thank you, Dean," I said with a smile, causing my lip to throb. One of my grayish-blue eyes twitched in pain.

Dean was frowning too. Was this a genetic thing? Or were they actually empathetic people?

"So, Sam said that your dad did that to you?"

I nodded in response.

"Purposely?"

"Can't exactly to this," I said, pointing to the three long scars that were vertically marred on the right side of my cheek, "On accident."

"That's disgusting," Dean spat, shaking his head. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Only one more year and you could leave," Dean said.

I looked down at my feet and grabbed onto the edge of the sink for balance – suddenly feeling lightheaded. Maybe it was from the blood loss. Maybe it was because I actually was exhausted. Dean stepped forward and held one arm out in case I fell. I waved my hand at him to signal for him to give me a little more space.

"Can I tell you something, Dean?" I asked after a few seconds, leaning heavily on my arm.

"Sure?"

"I'm not going back home," I said, shaking my head. "At least… not for a while. The only thing I need to go back for is… sum'more clothes, some weapons, and valuables. I mean… It's not worth it… to stay with 'im… _Right_…?"

I felt really dizzy. I think Dean noticed because I believe that he was going to say something, but stopped when my head drooped down and my knees started to buckle. _How is it that lightheadedness can catch up with you like this?_ _How do you go from feeling just fine, to feel like you're being slammed into a brick wall? _I wondered as Dean caught me in his muscled arms, scooping me up bridal-style, as if I weighed less than nothing.

My head began to seriously hurt and throb. I blinked furiously for a few seconds.

"I'm sorry," I muttered quietly, which sounded loud in my ears. I wasn't sure why I felt the need to apologize. Maybe because he had to pick me up. Maybe because he had to worry about me for a few minutes, and we only really knew each other's first names.

"It's okay Ellie," Dean said just as quietly. I noticed that he had adopted the same nickname for me that his father had. I didn't mind.

He carried me circumspectly down the stairs and took me into Bobby's library. I vaguely saw the figure I knew was John shoot up from the couch before he quickly strode over.

"Is she okay?"

"I think she's going to pass out."

"What happened?"

"I'm not sure. She just looked really sick and pale, and then she just fell."

"Put her on the couch."

I tried to keep my eyes out, but I couldn't. I felt so tired; so very exhausted. I couldn't stay awake for a second lon…ger…


End file.
